Monday, June 27, 2011

Ellen Bartelle, Woman of Mystery, Part 2

It was a dark and stormy morning.  Ellen quickly closed her pink lip print umbrella and placed it in the rack in front of the school.  She walked through the tiled hallway, her shoes squeaking with each step.  So much for creeping through.  As she passed each classroom, some junior high student or other looked up at her.  She took the stairs up three full flights to the school storage area.  She had discovered this nook during her high school years.  She would occasionally sneak off to read Nancy Drew novels instead of attending Geometry class.  Rounding the corner, she neared the banged up lockers.  She ran her hand over each locker as she passed, just as she used to do in high school, listening to the ping as she passed from one door to the next.  Aah, number 231, her last locker number.  She spun out the combination and opened the door, reaching a hand up to the shelf.  Ellen smiled; the mayor had brought her supplies and initial payment.  She closed the locker door with a clang and squeaked her way back down the stairs.  She tried to imagine the billious mayor hiking the three flights up here with the $100, Godiva bar, and Fit for Life admittance badge.  Did he come himself or send some poorly paid government lackey to make the trek?

Ellen was leaving the junior high wing, nearing the front door when she glanced toward the school offices.  Sensing the presence of someone, she paused and glanced toward the vice principal's office.  There he was...just as she always remembered him from junior high days gone by.  He was tall, with curly dark hair that spilled a little down his forehead despite efforts to tame it.  Their eyes locked for a moment; her hand instinctively touched her fanny pack.  She could feel the color coming to her face and she looked down in embarrasment.  He spoke quickly to his secretary, then began walking toward her with purpose.  She began her escape, squeaking out the heavy school doors.  She immediately located and grabbed her umbrella...this was why it always paid to have a unique pattern.  She fled, without opening it and the vice principal stood at the doors watching her run through the rain, fanny pack bouncing with each stride.

1 comment:

  1. Ellen, Ellen. What is it about this vice principal that has you running out into the rain? Could he possibly be . . . the one that got away?